On being…

If we weren’t ourselves we’d probably be happy. Strip away the words, the smiles and all the contrived assurances of Ok-ness and this is what you’re left with. It’s not necessarily about ‘more’, but rather about ‘other’, ‘different’, ‘sooner’, ‘longer’, and on and on and on. 

Florence Welch has already figured it out: it’s not about the fear of falling, it’s about what happens when you hit the ground. It’s not about someone else’s grass being greener than yours, it’s the irony of the conviction that were this your grass, it would be the most perfect of greens. We don’t want to fix ours, we only wish to polish someone else’s.

Because it’s easier being anyone but who you are. 

Open up and say ahhh as they spoon-feed you all your papier-mâché beliefs.

Walter M. Miller Jr writes in one of his novels, “You don’t have a soul, Doctor. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily.”

A sad realization as we often hate the one and completely ignore the other. 

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